


Peel Slowly and See.

by cereal



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-26
Updated: 2013-10-26
Packaged: 2017-12-30 13:19:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1019084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cereal/pseuds/cereal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He barely even looks up when the bells above the door jingle anymore. It's hardly ever a customer for him, always One Direction this and Adele that, today's pop music, all firmly in Donna's wheelhouse. (A Doctor/Rose record shop AU.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Peel Slowly and See.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Challenge 003 over at [Then Theres Us](http://then-theres-us.livejournal.com/338910.html). The Doctor/Rose record shop AU I've been talking about writing for a long time, made real! [This](http://imgur.com/a/xor4Z#0) is the Billie Piper we're working off of here, if that interests you.
> 
> * * *

He barely even looks up when the bells above the door jingle anymore. It's hardly ever a customer for him, always One Direction this and Adele that, today's pop music, all firmly in Donna's wheelhouse.

As it is, he only looks up this time because if he stares at this album cover much longer, his eyes are going to drop right out of his head. It's been two weeks and he's tried every epoxy on the market, but still can't find one strong enough to get the damn banana sticker to stay on, and one harmless enough not to damage anything. 

Damn banana, damn Velvet Underground, damn Nico and Andy Warhol, too. 

And damn this customer, this blonde woman standing at the door of his shop and looking around like she's going to need  _loads_  of assistance. Dirty Chuck Taylors, and olive green coat, jeans too tight for proper circulation -- she looks like he does actually, nearly identical uniforms, but he can spot a fake from a mile away.

"Donna, customer for you!" he calls, not even bothering to rise from his desk in the office at the back of the shop. Donna had removed his door in a fit of irritation one day, telling him it was starting to smell in the small room. Donna, his sister, who couldn't even change a plug, had found her way to getting the door clean off its hinges. Wonders never cease. 

Still, it affords him a view of the shop's entrance, right down the main aisle, to whichever Philistine was going to fork over money for some abomination that shouldn't even qualify as music today. 

"Get 'em yourself, dumbo!" Donna shouts back. "I'm having lunch!"

Donna's voice is muffled by the ratty, still-on-its-hinges door that leads to the small break room and he knows that if he tries opening it, tries to force her out to deal with this lady at the front, he'd find himself locked out. 

With a sigh, he pushes himself out of his desk chair, quickening his step as he notices the lady has made her way to the side aisles where the vinyl --  _his_  vinyl -- is kept. It's the only part of the store he feels strongly about and he doesn't like allowing just anyone to browse. Not with their greasy little fingertips and tendencies to bend corners. 

"Can I help you?" he says, sounding annoyed even to his own his ears. 

The girl -- the  _woman_ , or, well, tough to say actually, she seems to be right in the in-between, 19 or 20, maybe even older, but definitely going on what he knows is the meaningless existence of adulthood -- startles at his interruption. 

"Yeah," she says. "I'm looking for the first pressing of 'Bad Wolf,' I heard you had one."

No, no, no, no. No. Not this girl, not this blonde, mascara-ed  _kid_. No way is she getting that. It took him ages to find a second copy, and it's only because they could really use the money that he's started selling from his second collection.

"What?"

The girl gives him a weird look, her face twisting in confusion, "'Bad Wolf,'" she says. "The TARDIS album? I heard you had a first pressing, I want to buy it."

He's still staring at her, can't seem to form words, no questions, no dismissals, nothing. Just staring.

"Listen," she tries again. "Is there someone else I could talk to about this? I heard there was a music expert at this shop, could I speak to them maybe? They'll know what I'm looking for."

He feels his mouth open, jaw dropping slightly before he clicks it shut. " _I_  am the music expert, and I know  _exactly_  what you're looking for. Question is -- do you? That album is groundbreaking. Bands are still trying, every single day, to emulate -- poorly -- what TARDIS did on that record. It's not something you buy to look pretty in your flat."

The girl rolls her eyes. "Oh, terrific, a wanker  _and_  a snob. If this thing weren't so hard to find, I'd already be out of here, but like I said, I heard you had one and I want to buy it."

He can't help crossing his arms over his chest. Not the first time he's been called those names, not even the first time today, actually, but he's not taking cheek from some posh little girl who's found her way to the wrong side of town.

"Where'd you hear that?"

The girl shakes her head at him, clearly in disbelief. "From your site. Where you put -- _online_  -- that you had a copy available. Honestly, you don't want people to buy something, don't advertise that it's for sale on the internet, not if you weren't expecting to attract people with those new-fangled computers to come knocking."

Oh, right, the advert. He'd forgotten about that, the way Donna had made him put a page on the website with all the rarities they had on offer. Supposed to help bring in more money, although he'd just as soon keep his records. He can picture Donna in the back of his head, waving overdue invoices at him and he has to relent.

"Fine," he says. "Tell me five modern bands influenced by TARDIS' work on 'Bad Wolf' and I'll let you buy it."

With a smirk, the girl extends her hand, ticking acts off on her fingers. "SJ Adventures, Torchwood, Exterminate/Exterminate, Spaceships, Hat Trick Adric, Time Rotor, and oooh, maybe Arctic Monkeys, just the drums though. Shall I keep going?"

Well, he's not going to admit he was wrong about this girl, if that's what she's looking for. 

"Oh, how brilliant, you can access Wikipedia on that new-fangled computer," he says, and, okay, maybe --  _maybe_  that was uncalled for.

"Fuck you," the girl says. 

From up the main aisle, he hears Donna huffing angrily their way. Great, now he's going to get chewed out  _and_  lose the sale. In the background, Lou Reed warbles over the speakers, the album to the cover he'd been repairing.

 _I am tired, I am weary, I could sleep for a thousand years_.

Preach, Lou, preach. 

"I'm sorry, miss," Donna says, sweeping around the corner rack all smiles and light. "Was my brother being unhelpful? It's an affliction he has. What I can do for you?"

The girl's face changes into something more pleasant as she turns to look at Donna. "I was just saying I wanted to buy your copy of 'Bad Wolf' and your...brother doesn't appear to want to sell it to me."

Donna steps closer to his side, voice lowering to a murmur. "That's a 150 quid album! Sell. It."

He snorts, "Yeah, 150 quid, exactly how much that field jacket she's wearing costs," he turns back to the girl. "Do you think that makes you blend in with the cool kids? Because let me tell you, they certainly didn't buy theirs at Harrods."

Red heat rises angrily in the girl's cheeks and she slams her eyes shut for a long second before opening them to stare daggers at him. "Yeah, 150 quid, that's exactly how much my dad paid when he bought it for himself two weeks before he died.  _Wanker_."

He feels all the blood drain from his own face, guilt settling huge and heavy in his guts as Donna clears her throat.

"He's very sorry, really he is," Donna says. "I'm Donna and this is the Doctor."

He nods, trying to agree, but the thing in his stomach is doing flips and all that comes out it is, "Our parents are dead, too."

The girl's eyes soften briefly before she slots her annoyance back into place. "I'm Rose," she says to Donna, before turning to him, "And I am  _not_  here for a meeting of the orphans club. I'm here to buy a record."

Donna nods at her. "Right, definitely, let me just grab it for you. Will that be credit? You know what, it doesn't matter, all your money is good here." She turns to glare at the Doctor, " _Everyone's_  money is good here." Then she's dashing back to the stock room for the rare stuff, leaving him standing awkwardly with this Rose.

"Are you really?" he asks, because he's an idiot who can't help himself. 

"Am I really what?" She's turned to flip through the 'S' section, stopping deliberately on The Stranglers, and if he were the sort to get soppy about women anymore, he'd definitely trot out 'Golden Brown' about this girl's eyes. 

"An orphan," he says.

She shakes her head. "Nah, I got my mum. Sorry about your parents, though."

He shrugs, it's not something he talks about a lot, neither he or Donna. "It's all right," he says, gesturing around him. "We've got their shop, sort of keeps them alive." He pauses, "I'm sorry, that sounded stupid."

She smiles at him, a tiny, quiet thing that he finds just a little bit comforting. "I don't think so. That's why I wear this coat. Why I listen to this music, actually. Reminds me of him."

The Doctor nods for lack of anything better to do, scrubbing his hand through his hair as Donna comes rushing back with the album. 

"Is there anything else we can get for you?" Donna, ever the up-seller, asks. 

"Depends," Rose says, chewing on her lip, and, oh, that's distracting, but no. No. Not distracted by women at all, ever, anymore, that's his thing now. "Do you have any punk?"

He can't help the grin that takes over his face as Donna shakes her head, muttering, "Oh boy, here we go." She raises her voice louder, waving the TARDIS album, "I'll just leave this at the till!"

Then, before he can think better of it, he's grabbing Rose's hand, dragging her to the corner of the shop where he keeps the punk, old concert posters peeling from the walls, the floor marked off in spray paint.

In the background, Lou Reed sings on,  _Run, run, run_. 

Running with this Rose, that's not bad for a Monday. 

"Do we have any punk?" He scoffs when they're settled in front of the racks. "Of course we have punk, but none of that commercial garbage. You want any of that, you can head right back to the CDs. Nothing but the finest on vinyl."

Rose begins flipping through the albums, handling them gently, and it's possible -- just a tiny bit -- that he misjudged her.

"Where are you drawing this line then,  _Doctor_? Nothing arbitrary, I hope. Not one of those '70s purists or UK-only twats, are you?"

Her eyes are sparkling at him, tongue between her teeth, and he likes this smile the best so far, this girl in her olive green coat and her dirty trainers, that spent the last ten minutes making him look like an idiot. 

"No," he says, voice rising, ready for a good lecture, the one he's given himself a million times in his living room. "I'm just saying, the commercialization of punk rock as a product packaged for the mass market completely flies in the face of its ethos. It's about more than record sales, it's about the disadvantaged rising up to take back what's their's, it's about saying no, we're not going to take what the establishment feeds us," he's getting more frantic, more passionate, "It's -- it's the music of the people!"

Rose is still grinning at him -- actually, she's properly laughing at him now. "Hey, hey, calm down there, Victor Hugo, I'm pretty sure that's your anti-establishment Prius parked out front."

From across the shop, Donna's laughing, too, "Oh, I like you, you can definitely stay."

He leaves Rose alone then, confident she's not going to do irreparable damage to anything, and when she heads to the till an hour later, he jumps back up from his desk, waving Donna off to ring Rose up himself. 

He's more than a little curious about her selections, the fat stack of vinyl she's clutching delicately to her chest. She deposits them on the counter next to the TARDIS album and his eyes scan the covers. A handful of from the punk section, a bit more new wave than he'd have expected, and still more from the rarities room. Donna must have let her in when he wasn't looking, but he can't say he's angry -- impressed is more like it. She's managed to pick out more than a few albums he'd consider hidden gems. 

There is also every single Buzzcocks album they currently have in stock. She shrugs when he lingers over them. 

"My dad's name was Pete," she says, and points to Pete Shelley's name on one of the back of one of the covers. "Seemed like a sign."

He nods eagerly. "Oh, they're brilliant, you're gonna love them.  _Ever fallen in love with someone you shouldn't have fallen in love with_? Story of everyone's life, right?"

He clamps down hard on the memory of Joan, and Reinette, and every other person who endured the misfortune of having him in their life. Although, sometimes, especially those most recent two, it was his own misfortune. 

"Yeah, tell me about it," she scoffs, as he rings up her purchases, and he can't imagine a bloke mistreating this girl, but clearly one or two have, if that reaction meant anything. 

Her total is a big number -- more than the shop usually takes in in a day, and she looks almost embarrassed as she counts out the notes to pay it. It's only then that he notices that her bag, the one slung across her chest, and her wallet, too, they're just as high quality as her coat. 

"I know what you're thinking," she says, "I think you thought it when I walked in here -- some posh princess, spending daddy's money."

He looks away sheepishly, making a show of putting the albums into a bag. 

"I am though," Rose's voice is soft. "He was an inventor, my dad, a good one. And I promise you, I'd rather have him back than all of this," she shoves the pound notes toward him on the counter. 

The Doctor nods, quietly accepting the money. "I'd trade the shop for mine," he says. "Donna would, too, but it doesn't mean as much to her. Think she'd fancy it better if the family business had been something else. Hats, maybe."

Rose laughs, "Hats?"

He grins and hands the bag over the counter to Rose. "Loves a good hat, my sister does." 

It's not typical, walking a customer out, but he makes his way around the counter anyway, curiously anxious to keep talking to Rose. Certainly she's the best customer they've had in months. 

"Never had much of a head for hats," Rose tells him as the walk the aisle toward the door. 

"Ah, me neither," he says. " _Well-llll_ , probably could do, but then I'd be covering up this," he points at his hair, taking a moment to ruffle it deliberately. 

"It is pretty great," Rose agrees, and he feels like preening. 

The shop bells jingle again as they open the door, and he's reluctant to let her go, back to the monotony of his office and whatever brain-dead Belieber is sure to come in next. Although -- maybe Rose likes Justin Bieber. It would be okay if she did, he decides. She would probably have a good reason. 

God, he is a fussy bastard, isn't he?

"Hey, Rose," he says as she steps through the door and out onto the sidewalk. "Spaceships is actually playing a gig on Friday, a couple blocks over. You could come -- if you want?"

Stupid, stupid, stupid. So stupid. 

She stares at him then, a searching look that he does his best not to fidget under. "No...I've got...no. I just -- I can't, not right now."

He can't say he's surprised, that whole fussy bastard thing, that's probably evident, and he nods before waving goodbye and stepping back in the shop. 

In his office, he only allows himself to wallow for five minutes before he forcibly reminds himself that women are trouble anyway, and he's sworn off them. 

He doesn't need women, and he doesn't need Rose. 

Four days later, he reverses that decision entirely. 

It's Friday evening, and he and Donna had agreed to close the shop early -- her for another date with Lee, and him for the Spaceships show later that night. He's in a record shop on the outskirts of London, searching in vain for a hard-to-find import of Pandorica's debut album, when he sees her again. 

With his prize tucked firmly under her arm. 

"Hey," he says, by way of greeting. "That's my album."

She glances up at him, eyes widening in surprise before she recovers, grinning. "Is it?" She holds the album up to his head. "You don't look like Amy Pond, or Rory Williams. And you don't seem to be in possession of this record. So, I'd say, in no way is this your album."

He reaches up for the record near his head and she snatches it away with a smirk, putting it back under her arm. 

"No," he says. "But it's what I came here for -- it's my album."

She shrugs, managing to make the gesture look cheeky. "It's what I came here for, too. Just as much mine. Actually, it's  _more_  mine, because I have it."

He barely stops himself from stomping his foot. "Aww, come on! Please?"

She shakes her head. "Nope. You can listen to it if you want, I can come around to the shop and you can destroy the quality on those shit speakers of yours."

He huffs, "They're hardly shit! I installed that system myself! State of the art!"

"When? In 1985?"

He huffs again, because maybe it has been a few years, but they still definitely sound brilliant, he's sure of it. 

"Haha," he says. "Anyway, don't bother, I have the album, it's that import cover art I'm looking for. Something about that Roman bloke, just waiting, it's sort of unnerving, isn't it?"

She glances down at the album and back up at him. "I think it's romantic," Rose says. "I think he's waiting for a girl."

This time he scoffs, "Romance? On a  _Pandorica_  album? None of those lyrics speak to a healthy relationship." He pauses, considering, "Well, maybe that song about Idris, but that wasn't even written by the usual lyricist! Not gonna count it."

She laughs, "Fine, you don't have to listen to it, but you're not going to be  _looking_  at either. If you'll excuse me, I have a purchase to make."

Rose leaves him standing in the aisle as she walks toward the till. It's only a few seconds before he dashes after her -- if he can't have the album himself, at least he can make sure it's going to a good home. 

When Rose is finished, she dangles the bag enticingly in front of him and he makes one final grab. She ducks under his arm, moving toward the door, and he finds himself following again. 

If he's going to keep making an arse of himself, what's one more time?

"About that Spaceships show tonight," he says as they exit the shop. "Did I mention Time Rotor's opening up for them?"

It's the longest few seconds of his life, or it feels like it, as Rose stares at him, car keys clutched in the hand not holding the album  and a look he can't decipher on her face. 

At the very least, he's seen that face one more time, he tells himself. That'll help fill in the parts where his memory was going fuzzy, a couple of nights of thinking about her coming back to the shop and a door mysteriously materializing to his office when he leads her to it. His wandering right hand didn't seem to need a refresher, but certain elements of his brain appreciate it. 

He's just about to ask if she'd heard him, or call the whole thing back, when she nods. 

"Sure," she says and when she nods this time it's more emphatic. "Sure, okay, I'll go."

The grin that takes over his face even  _feels_  goofy, he can't imagine how it must look. 

"Brilliant! You can follow me back to the shop." He points at the car she's standing near and then his own maligned Prius. "We can walk there."

They settle themselves in their cars and he pulls into the road, making sure she's following and humming along with the radio. It's only as he parks his car in his spot in front of his shop that he realizes what he'd been humming. 

 _Friday, I'm In Love_ , and, ugh, he's just as easy as he ever was. 

Getting out of his car and waiting for Rose to park and do the same, he comforts himself rewriting the lyrics. 

Somehow, "Friday, I'm Vaguely, Perhaps, Infatuated," just doesn't have the same ring.  

It's only a short walk to the venue, but they're far too early and he's certainly not going to stand in a  _queue_. No, quick nod at the bouncer and right in, that's more his style. 

"Do you want to get something to eat?" he asks, the smell of chips making his mouth water from two doors down. 

"What, like a date?" Rose is grinning innocently at him, but there's mischief in her eyes that he wants to poke at. 

He pretends to deliberate, eyes skating slowly over her. She's wearing the same coat, jeans, and trainers from before, but her shirt is different, a plaid button up she's buttoned right to her neck. 

His fingers itch to undo that button, and, frankly, all of them, when he says, "Yes, exactly like a date."

She rakes her eyes over him with the same scrutiny he'd used and he's caught up trying to imagine what she sees, hoping it's non-threatening and friendly and maybe a little enticing. 

There's his own coat, the one that looks so similar to hers that he can't help wondering if they're the same make. Not that he has 150 quid to throw around on a coat, but he used to, when his parents were alive and people didn't download music, and he had. It's how he'd known the price tag, actually. 

His jeans are a bit dirty, a bit skinny, and a bit precarious in the way they're hanging from his hips -- that'll be put right if he can just get some chips in his belly, though.

His shoes, well, not much room for her to judge, she's wearing the same scuffed up Chuck Taylors he is, only hers are cream colored, and his are black. Still, nothing he can imagine is deal-breaker territory. 

His t-shirt, too, seems neutral enough, black cotton with a white screenprinted logo for The Jam across the front of it. If he squints and thinks really hard (not hard at all), he can imagine a cut up movie montage of their walk to the venue set to "In The City."

In the montage, they're holding hands, and that stupid, irrepressibly romantic part of him, wants to do just that. 

By the time he's completed his mental assessment, Rose is staring at him, an amused smile turning up the corners of her lips. "Everything okay?"

He nods, rapid and exaggerated. "Brilliant, everything's brilliant," he says. "Or, well, sort of depends on your answer -- want to get something to eat, exactly like a date?"

The full smile spreads across her face and, good fucking god, is he ever in trouble, heart hammering and palms sweating and breath held as she says --

"Yeah, I do."

Everything in him sings, that ecstatic buzz of fancying someone flying through his veins and he's leading her into the pub before he can do something ridiculous, like dance a jig. 

He'd forgotten what this was like, to find someone and like them and be with them, even just for a little while. Every relationship invariably became work, too much for him, or too much for the women, and someone always quitting. 

He has a feeling though, with this woman, with  _Rose_ , he might not mind the work. 

It doesn't hurt that she's pretty enough that he has to curl his fingernails into his palm to keep from telling her so. 

Rose orders chips, warning him that he'll be wanting his own basket when he sees the way she takes them. He follows her advice and is glad for it when upturns the bottle of vinegar and lets it pour out while she looks around the pub. 

Her eyes land on a telly and she squints at it before finally righting the bottle and reaching for the salt. 

The shake shake shake of her wrist and hand as she salts her chips is practically vulgar, and not just for the way she's ruining her meal. It's a whole new world, the way Rose's hand could wrap around other things and make that same movement. 

He snuffs out the thought -- he may have been out of the game for a while, but he's nearly certain that sexual fantasies  _during_  dates, especially first dates, is not how things are done.

And anyway, he really does want to talk her, or, rather, he wants her to talk to him. He wants to know as much as he can about this woman, this Rose --

"Hey, what's your last name?"

"Tyler," she says and sets the salt aside.

\-- this Rose Tyler. And doesn't that just trip off the tongue? 

Rose  _Tyler_. 

It's an hour and a half later, as they're leaving the pub for the concert, that he's learned so much more than just her last name. Her embarrassing fondness for cheap pop music, her mum and her history and the dog she never had. 

He learns that she smiles with her tongue even more than he could ever have hoped for, and that those, bright white teeth she pinches it between are the product of three years of braces in her adolescence. 

He also learns that she, thankfully, is no longer an adolescent. 

He learns about her mates and her schooling and her habit of dating music bloggers. 

The last blogger-boyfriend, Mickey Smith, had apparently grown up with her, and she had laughed and admonished the Doctor when he called the bloke, "Mickey the Idiot."

(He's sticking by that though, he's read that blog, and anybody that can't see beyond the stigma to genuinely enjoy Coldplay  _is_  an idiot, as far as he's concerned.)

Most importantly, he's learned that she's not opposed to hand-holding at all, and it's this bit he relishes in as her fingers twine between his and they push past the crowds to head to the mezzanine. 

She worms her way right up to the railing just as Time Rotor is beginning their set, and there's no room for him to stand next to her, so he steps behind her, pressed up close as the first song begins and the crowd contracts. 

Their coats have been checked and it's just two layers of the thin cotton that makes up their shirts separating his torso from the skin of her back. 

He can feel the ridges of her bra clasp right in the center of his chest every time he leans forward to predict the next song. She's been right more than he has, but it's a happy problem to have, tilting in close to make more rapid fire guesses just to feel the pressure point. 

They're a sweaty, panting mess by the time the set is finished and Rose twists to face him, her back to the stage as the roadies for Spaceships start setting up. 

"Thank you," she tells him and his ears are still ringing, the high, tinny echo still bouncing in his skull. 

"What?"

"I said thank you!" she shouts, and grins when he jerks his head back. She lowers her voice again, "I shouldn't have said no the first time you asked."

He raises his eyebrows, head bobbing in exaggerated confirmation before she swats him across the biceps. 

"I just meant, they were silly, my reasons for turning you down," she says. 

"What were they?"

Her fingers pick at a piece of imaginary lint on her shoulder and he brushes them away, his own fingers plucking at the cotton until she answers. 

"Oh, you know, same old stuff, didn't want to get hurt, didn't want to get involved, didn't want you going behind my back to ask my mum for money to feed your drug habit -- the usual" she says.

He can't keep back the way his eyes widen. "Mickey did that?"

Rose shakes her head. "No, no, that one was Jimmy."

The Doctor moves his fingers, nudging her shoulder and trying to get her to smile, "I, of course, am only going to ask your mum for money to feed my  _vinyl_  habit."

She laughs, "Store full of the stuff and you still don't have enough? Spoken like a true addict."

In a wave of bravery, his hands settle on the railing behind her, caging her in. "Seems like I'd be seeing you at those meetings, too, you know."

Shaking her head, Rose defers, "No, no way, just a hobby. I know my limits."

He tips his head forward, voice low, "I'll bet you don't. I bet it's in your blood. I bet sometimes just the sound of the needle dropping on the record gets you going."

She moves her forehead to rest against his, and it's suddenly so, so warm. "What do you know about what gets me going?"

Tightening his arms where they're resting against her waist, he shuffles forward a single step, bringing them chest to chest, and his stupid heart, the way it's pounding, the way the ringing in his ears hasn't dulled, has, in fact, gotten so much louder, and she smells so much better than anyone has a right to, sweat and beer and smoke and chips, all wrapped in a pretty little package, and signed with expensive perfume. 

"Not much yet," he says, and the words are spoken slowly, quietly, because he's close enough to her that any big movements, any big words, they'd put his lips against hers. "But I want to."

He's going to do it, he's definitely going to do it, this girl he's barely known for a handful of hours, he's going to kiss her. And somehow, he knows, it's going to feel like so much more than that. He shifts so his nose rests alongside hers, her breath ghosting warmly over his lips, and he can't even lick them, can't do anything, because it's all going to be a kiss, and he wants to do it deliberately. 

From the front of the venue, a guitar clangs on stage, discordant and loud, and they both startle, breaking the mood as he jumps away from her. 

Air leaves his lungs on an obnoxious sigh, completely typical, that. Before he can get too down though, Rose is grabbing his hand, tugging him back through the crowd. "Let's get something to drink!"

She pulls him up to the bar, smiling prettily at the barman and holding up two fingers. Cups of beer are sloshed down in front of them and he's got his wallet out and paid for them well before he's recovered from what nearly happened at the railing. 

His heart is still racing, the back of his neck still tingling, as Rose shoves away from the bar, moving to lean up against the rear wall and tipping her head to stare at the small monitors displaying the stage set up. 

He takes a moment to admire the smooth column of her neck. Her shirt collar is still buttoned up so tight, almost but not quite pinching the skin, and he wants to run his fingers along it. And then his tongue. 

"We've lost our spots, you know," he says, jerking his thumb at where a small crowd has gathered to fill in the hole they'd left.

She shrugs. "We could get it back. Only -- don't you think it's better back here?" She gestures at the empty space in front of them, several feet in every direction as they're backed up to the wall. The crowds up at the railing, and on the floor below, suddenly seem so stifling, so…well,  _crowded_. 

There was something to be said for the way they kept him pressed up against Rose though, and he takes a long drink of his beer to mourn the loss. They'd had a couple of pints in the pub, and he'd finished her second, as well, when she'd said she'd rather eat the rest of his chips than finish her lager. It was a trade he'd made gladly, liquid courage and all that, and now, with this new beer, it's like he's lit a fuse. 

There's something heady and strong knocking around his skull, making the edges of the room seem softer, making Rose seem that much more enticing. He thinks it might actually just be her. He's got no patience for soulmates, or love at first sight, can barely even stomach it in the lyrics to songs he's listened to a thousand times, but there really is something about her. Giddy and foolish and completely enamored. 

"Don't you?" she says, and he has to back track to remember what they were talking about. 

"Oh, yeah. Yeah, of course, much better back here. More room to…breathe," he says, and thinks about that, how he means it quite literally where she's concerned, that he needs that space, needs to remember that he gets all gasp-y when he's nervous, and Rose doesn't look like the type to suffer panting lechers very well. 

She nods and sips at her beer, eyes darting all over the venue. It's the most awkward they've been with each other yet and he knows it's because of how he'd almost kissed her. What else could it be? But was it awkward because she hadn't wanted him to -- or because she had and he hadn't done it?

He's finished his drink, deep, steady sips just to fill the time, tossing it in the nearby bin when Rose finally breaks the silence. Well, relative silence, there's the omnipresent buzz of the crowd, the background house music, laughter, noise, all of it, but all he can hear -- all he's been able to hear for several long minutes is that he and Rose are, inexplicably, not speaking. 

"Sort of gets cold though," she says. "Not being in the crowd."

Her eyes glance at the monitor again, the roadies clearing off the stage as the set up for Spaceships is completed, and she looks almost nervous.

"Rose Tyler, are you cold?" he teases, taking her now empty cup and tossing it the way of his in the bin.

"Of course I'm cold," she snarks back with a grin. "That's why I said it."

Her return is so quick that he jumps to catch up -- is she really cold, does he need to get her coat? Because he's already formed about a half-dozen fantasies of her wearing that coat and nothing else, and he is more than willing to get it. Or, actually, they involve  _his_  coat, but it's all swings and roundabouts when he gets down to it. Her coat would smell like her, but then, if she wore his, she could make  _that_  one smell like her. 

"Cool, brilliant," she says, and he has  _got_  to stop letting himself mentally wander away like that. Especially since there's literally no place he'd rather be than here. "I'll just be cold, then." She raises her eyebrows at him meaningfully and he fumbles to recover.

"Oh! Did you want me to get your coat?" He glances at the monitor, the band should be going on soon, but it's not like he won't be able to hear it on the way to and from the coat check. 

"No, it's fine, I'll just…" and she rubs her arms up and down her sleeves, catching one of the buttons at the cuff, accidentally snapping it open and --

Wait.

Snapping.

Oh, fuck, oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck. Snapping buttons. He's flooded with a million images of tugging at both sides of her shirt, the satisfying pop-pop-pop as the buttons come undone, revealing that bra that had been digging into his chest the entire opening act. All that skin he knows is underneath there. Maybe she has freckles, or a birthmark, maybe there's a bruise on her hip, maybe he can make another next to it with his mouth. 

It  _had_  to be snapping buttons. 

She continues to rub at her arms, but the movement loses some of its force as he remains fixed on her. She glances down at her shirt, the cuffs, rolling her head from side to side as she tries to see what he's staring at. 

"Do I have something on me?" she finally asks, and he shakes his head.

"No, I just -- sorry," he says. "Sorry. Let me --" He shifts to pull her in front of him, the band on stage now and both of them of facing forward.

Slowly, lightly, so she can feel and guess at the pressure before he fully commits, he puts his hand on her arms. He gets them settled, fingers curling around her biceps through her shirt, and thankfully, she doesn't object. 

In fact, she encourages him, shifting back into him so they're pressed up close again, like they were at the railing, only there's no crowd forcing them into it this time. 

He begins to rub at her arms just as the drums kick in and the set begins. He recognizes the song immediately, timing his strokes to the beat, fingers catching friction against the cotton and Rose's hips begin to wiggle with the music. 

Spaceships' new stuff is music you can dance to, not very well, not him at least, just jangling limb-shaking alone in his flat, and he's pleased to see Rose is moving the same way -- the happy, jerky movements of someone more caught up in the song than how they look. 

Of course, that her movements keep pushing her arse right into his groin, well, he can't tell if that's helping or hurting yet. Certainly it  _feels_  brilliant, but he can't imagine getting hard in his stupid tight jeans is going to work out like he's hoping. 

He focuses instead on the way his hands are skittering up and down her arms, shifting the action away from unnecessary heat and more toward twisting her body with the beat. One song rolls into the next and he's getting even more brazen, turning her back and forth as they both bob their heads and bounce on their feet. 

He twists her with a bit more force during one of his favorite bits, a twangy guitar riff backed by the light pulse of a drum beat, and it's just enough to get her all the way around, and then she's facing him. 

They take a moment to grin at each other, blooming smiles that look silly and feel great, and then he's laughing and sweating, his hands moving to her hips as her arms slip over his shoulders, her fingers keeping the steady, tapping beat on the back of his neck. 

The stage lights are flashing, riotous colors that pinball through the venue, Rose is blue, Rose is green, Rose is a pretty, pretty pink. Everywhere, everyone, the whole venue is moving, caught up and happy, a crowd of people throbbing in waves and the pulse of a really fucking great song. 

It's ridiculous and carefree and he feels like a kid again, dancing around the living room with his parents to The Beatles, even Donna joining in,  _Help, I need somebody! Help, not just anybody!_

He can't keep still, not with Rose like a firework in front of him, sparking and giggling and shouting lyrics to the rafters, and it's this feeling, this caffeine jolt to his blood, that makes him try one more time. 

"Ready?!" he shouts and Rose's eyes fix on his, and she's nodding and smiling so wide and toothy.

He's not sure she's understood, and he moves his hands to her face, cupping her cheeks, as she slows in front of him. 

"Say go!" he shouts again, and and she smacks at his shoulder with the sound of a kick drum, perfectly timed. 

"Go!" she yells. 

He ducks his head, hands holding her face still as the rest of her body -- both of their bodies, really -- still twist to the beat. 

His lips meet hers and everything goes still, both of them, the music, all of it drops out for a split second, the feel of her mouth against his the single point of life in the entire universe. 

It all comes crashing back as they begin to move, differently this time, full of purpose and heat as he pulls back only to kiss her again, a quick series of kisses that he strings together on a whim, light and happy as she grins against his mouth. 

The song stops in reality this time, a distant part of him recognizes that another will be starting soon, but in the silence she presses against him, catching his bottom lip between her own, and then he's tugging her tighter to him, fingers in her belt loops as his tongue darts out to glance against her lips. 

She parts them swiftly, in time with his, and then his tongue is stroking alongside hers as something altogether more blues-y and slow starts up from the stage. 

Her fingers curl up into his hair, tugging and scratching and twisting, and he slants his mouth more firmly across hers, deepening the angle as they advance and retreat. Her tongue in his mouth, his tongue in her mouth, teeth and spit and deep, wet noises that he's sure would be vulgar if they weren't drowned out by rhythm guitar. 

His fingers dance from her belt loops to the hem of her shirt and he can't help but unsnap just that bottom button. The noise is lost to the music, but the feeling of it, of that release, is too much and he groans against Rose's mouth, his hips arching up from where she's pinned them to the wall. 

Rose, bless her little music-loving heart, mimics the action, hips meeting his and knocking them back into the fake wood paneling that lines the venue's walls. 

So much for not getting hard in his too tight jeans, so much for taking it slow, so much for whatever other stupid ideas he didn't even bother to think of -- it's this, it's this  _right now_ , and he and this song and this band and this girl are going to live forever right here.

He pulls away only to drop his mouth to her neck, mumbling lyrics and notes against the soft skin there, teeth for a drum beat, a lick for a lick, and she keeps squirming, one hand in his back pocket now, the other still in his hair, rutting and thrusting, and good fucking god, not only will he have gotten hard in his jeans, he's gonna fucking come in them, too. 

It's two songs later, his hand just barely up her shirt, fingers skipping across the slight ridges of her ribs, when a note bends sour and there's a clatter like someone falling from the stage. They pull apart to look, mouths wet and breath stuttering, and there's the bass player, sprawled out across the stage, laughing and wincing as he points at his shoulder.

The band tries to continue down their bass player, and he and Rose try to continue, too, but there's something about the relative distance now, how it's not so easy to force your inhibitions down when you're not caught up in something more than yourselves.

They duck out of the venue before the encore, Rose teasing him, reminding him that it was his idea, if they find out tomorrow the encore was something epic. It's a cross he bears willingly, gladly, helping her into coat before hustling out them both out onto the street to beat the crowds. 

The walk back to the shop seems to pass in an instant, her hand held in his, both of them tucked into the pocket of his jacket that's closest to her. 

He kisses her again before she gets into her car, a soft, quiet kiss that somehow still manages to thunder over the ringing his ears are still doing. She rolls the window down to wave at him and he returns the gesture like a loon as her car pulls away.

From there, it's one door over and up the stairs back to his flat.

He yanks off his coat and collapses into bed, squirming to strip down to his boxer briefs while staying horizontal. It takes longer than it would have if he'd just done it properly, but eventually his t-shirt, jeans, shoes, and socks all hit the floor and his head hits the pillow, skull buzzing and lips raw and a hickey he imagines he can somehow actually  _feel_  when he runs his fingers against his collarbone. 

That night he dreams of Rose Tyler, and she stands in front of him and she smiles.

The next morning, he's got the dried out feeling of one too many beers, cotton stuffed up in his head to replace the ringing that had been there last night, but he still can't stop himself from getting ready quickly, practically skipping through the doors of the shop just as Donna pulls up in the street. 

It all comes pouring out a few minutes later, a big swig of Donna's coffee washed down with a handful of the Smarties he keeps in the bowl on his desk, and he's telling her everything.

This woman, Rose Tyler, and oh, Donna, he fancies her, he really does. And he's expecting a warning, a slow down, something, anything, but Donna just smiles, that small, knowing, big sister smile of hers, and that's it, that's Donna's blessing, given and done.

There are a few more dates, a few more gigs, pub quizzes, mix CDs, long days spent together at the shop, and so much snogging he's perpetually half-hard. It's not been that long, not really at all, but they've seen so much of each other, it feels like years crammed down into a matter of weeks. 

And, well, he says half-hard, but he doesn't quite mean it, because sometimes he's not hard at all, sometimes he's soft and sweaty, collapsed on the sofa and blood singing with the things Rose Tyler can do with her mouth on his cock. Or the things Rose Tyler can make him do as he grounds the palm of his hand against the fly of his jeans, and his mouth up against where she's always so hot, and always so wet. 

It's more the taste of her, the sounds she makes, the filthy words she says, than anything he's doing with hand though, and he knows it. 

They've had the right conversations, both clean, her on the pill, all of it laying the groundwork for this thing that is very clearly inevitable, but it's not until another Friday night that they finally get there. 

She's been in his bed before, a few times actually, rutting against each other, twin sets of boxer briefs, one borrowed and one owned, as pajamas, but somehow they've never pushed it. He never goes to bed feeling sorry for it though, or well, not really. There's an omnipresent part of him that wants to fuck Rose Tyler into the mattress, but even that quiets down when she burrows into his chest, laying her head on his shoulder as they take turns picking out albums to listen to. 

He always gets up to move the needle after she's fallen asleep, and these quiet moments, looking at this girl curled up in his bed, his blue sheets setting off her pale skin and the white of the undershirt she always borrows, too, he likes these moments almost as much as the ones he spends touching her. 

Of course, it doesn't stop him from hustling back to bed, the way even when she shifts and moves -- and she does that a lot -- she always keeps one hand on him, fingers clasped with his while she sleeps, or her arm flung out and resting over his heart, fingers curled around one of his biceps. 

It's one of these quiet nights, that Friday, that she pushes things, and he pushes back, spooned up in front of him and her arse wiggling wiggling wiggling so very deliberate against him. He anchors her with a hand on her hip, arching forward to match her movements, and then his hand is tracing up her side, down and across the flat of her stomach, before moving to cup her breast. 

She lets out a low, breathy sound, almost a purr, and when he rings his thumb around her nipple, light pressure and light friction as he presses his erection into her backside, she does it again. 

There's a series of escalating noises, his groans and her sighs and when he hears her exhale around a word --  _Fuck_ , she says, and he couldn't agree more.

He pulls back to roll her underneath him, facing up and his leg fitting between hers as she pulls him down more fully on top of her. She arches up for friction against his thigh and he complies, shifting his leg a few times, his erection brushing hard and insistent against her hip. She tips her face up to kiss him, and he returns it, it's every bit as wet and messy as it was at the concert a month ago, an ordered, efficient sort of sloppy that they've perfected by now. Tongues that stroke lazy and then fast, teeth that graze and teeth that bite, and he's never had more hickeys in his life. Never been less inclined to complain about them either.

His hands slip down to bunch in the fabric of the t-shirt at her hips, tugging up insistently until the fabric is freed from where it's pinned between her back and the mattress, and up and over her head. It leaves her hair a tousled mess, and her lips, already so full and red, made even more so by his own lips, and her lovely, definitely golden brown eyes, and he can't help it.

"You're so pretty," he says, and she laughs.

"You've already got me into bed," she tells him.

"No, but you are, Rose,  _look_." He glances down their bodies, her breasts stretched and slightly flatter with the gravity of lying down, the soft rounding slope of her stomach, the skin disappearing into the waist band of her borrowed pants. 

She shifts her head to look, too, and then back up at him, tracing his eyebrows, his cheekbones, with the tips of her fingers, down his nose and across his lips, and she smiles when she says, "You're pretty, too."

He presses a quick kiss to her lips, her hand moving aside to make way for the movement. "Aren't I just?" he says, and grins. 

She rolls her eyes and slips her hand into his hair, tugging lightly. "You'd be prettier without your pants on."

Delighted, he agrees, "You would be, too! Imagine that. Best take them off, then."

He hops off of her, tugging his t-shirt over his head and shucking his boxer briefs to his ankles before stepping out them, while Rose shimmies out of her own on the bed. She reaches down to grab them when they're free, and flings them cheekily at his chest. He bats them away easily, and jumps back on to the bed, his erection bouncing slightly with the movement. Rose watches, transfixed, before reaching out to give it a light tug, grinning delightedly as it bobs back and forth again.

"Are you quite done?"

She tilts her head, considering, and then moves to do it again, gripping his cock more firmly this time before releasing it to watch as it springs back.

"All right," he says. "I can do it, too," and he moves both of his hands, thumbs edging under the bottoms of her breasts before knocking them forward slightly, a grin to match hers as they bounce perfectly. 

She repeats the movement on his cock, and he on her breasts, a few more times until he can't take it, wrapping his fist around her own the next time she circles his erection. 

"As much as I'm positive you could get me -- somehow -- to come from this," he twists his free hand to tap her lightly on the nose, "Especially once that mouth of yours get going, I'd much rather put this some place more interesting," he says and tightens his fist around hers, bucking his hips forward.

She feigns shock. "What mouth, Doctor? Surely you can't mean the way I talk about your cock, how hard it is, and how thick, and how sometimes I stop, right in the middle of the street, to think about what it would feel like buried inside me."

He groans, hips arching once more as his other hand tightens in the sheets next to her head, " _Rose_."

She smiles now, still radiating innocence. "Or maybe you mean the way I want to wrap my legs around your hips, nails digging into your shoulder, scratching down your back, as you pound into me with this." She tightens her hand on him of her volition this time, and he growls in response, but it isn't over, not by a long shot.

"No," he says, head ducking to lick a line down her throat, ending in a firm suck at the join of her neck and shoulder, "I was thinking more about how wet you get, sometimes you're nearly  _dripping_ , Rose, and, oh, you're so tight, aren't you? I can feel it around my fingers, the way I'd stretch you, fill you right up."

She slams her eyes shut, head rolling and back and forth rapidly on the pillow. "All right, all right, you win, fuck me, fuck, god, just fuck me."

He nods with a grin, and releases her hand, moving to shift his hips between her thighs. "Brilliant," he says. "We'll give that one to the skinny bloke with the great hair."

Slipping a hand between them to position to his erection, he tips his forehead to hers, an echo. "Say go," he murmurs.

"Go," she says, as her hands find his arse, pulling him fully into her one swift stroke.

There's not even a whisper of a rhythm as they both set off, bucking up and driving down and, "Fuck, god, yes, yes, keep going keep going keep going," he can't even tell who's saying it until she grins up at him.

"Not so eloquent now, are we?" she says, and he slams into her with a bit more force, dropping down to cover her closer, as she breathes out a moan in forfeit. 

Their mouths meet in haphazard kisses, sometimes it just brushes of tongue, teeth, lips and it's so sloppy, and so fucking good, "Come," he groans, "We need to come, you need to come, now, oh, god, fuck, Rose."

She answers him, arms and legs tightening around him, but it's really just holding on for the ride at this point, the way he's rocketing into her, short and fast, and her repeating and babbling, "Right there, right ther---" she tips, shouting to the ceiling and pulling his hair as she breaks apart beneath him.

He rushes, frantic, a few more solid, pounding strokes and he's hollering out behind her, and it's a grunt, that's a grunt, he is literally  _grunting_ , emptying himself inside of her, but Rose doesn't seem to mind, hands rubbing across his back as she encourages him, "Yes, yes, yes, come on, love,  _yes_."

It can't be called anything other than collapsing, the way his body falls bonelessly on top of hers, and she keeps her limbs tight, so tight around him, and there are all these emotions careening around his brain, and he's not going to cry, that's ridiculous (it's entirely possible, actually), and he just feels overwhelmed and vulnerable and happy and --  _loved_.

When her limbs finally go slack around him, he rolls off of her, moving to his back as she tucks up in that spot she loves, the one that's part his shoulder, and part his chest. 

There's a wet spot looming if she makes a wrong move, and a few minutes later, she shifts off of him, walking -- waddling, really -- awkwardly and endearingly, her legs tucked close together, into his en suite.

He makes an effort to clean himself up, dragging his t-shirt across his lap, before giving up entirely and just waiting for Rose to come back. When she does, she tucks herself right back into her spot, and promptly falls asleep, drooling on him in a matter of minutes. 

It's different, sleeping entirely naked, and he wakes up more than a few times in the night, but Rose is still there, always there, and he makes sure to press up against as much skin as he can before falling back asleep. 

In the morning, she spends a full fifteen minutes with just his boxer briefs on, brushing her teeth and washing her face topless, like that's a thing he's just supposed to be used to already. And he is, in a way, has seen her breasts enough to know which one has a freckle, and that she's nicknamed them "Shiver and Shake," but somehow, the whole domestic angle of it, the bit that used to scare the hell out of him, if he's honest -- well, somehow it seems like the best bit. He wants to cling to it, have her here forever. 

There are weeks that follow, more shagging and more kissing and more creeping toward domestication. She moves in after four months, which seems both much too fast, and like something that should have happened sooner. He's embarrassed for a bit, that's she moved to his shitty little one bedroom, when he's seen the house she grew up in now, but she never says a word, and he doesn't dare ask. Not when she immediately makes it feel like home.

She tells him she loves him the night before she moves in, sitting cross legged and facing him on his bed. "I just -- I think. I mean," and it's not like her, that stammer, not to that degree, and he takes her hand, knitting their fingers together while she settles. "I love you," she finally says, and it's only because he's trying to get the words out so quickly that it takes so long. "I love you, too," he finally says. And maybe he's said it before to other people, maybe he's even meant it, but not like this, never this, and he repeats himself, just because he can, "I love you, too."

There are, of course, dicey moments. 

Mickey comes around and Reinette comes back, he meets her mum and he fights with her mum, and he secretly actually loves her mum. One summer he spends a night in jail for punching Jimmy Stone square in the jaw, and one winter she spends a night on the sofa for saying something she shouldn't have about his parents. 

There are bumps in the road, and rough patches, and downhill free-falls, and uphill battles, but there's always the two of them.  

The Doctor and Rose Tyler, his absolute favorite album, and the record never skips.

* * *


End file.
